Marigolds
Every Sunday at two o'clock,
A slender, old man, creaseless
Black pants, starched shirt,
Suspenders adorned
With tin American eagles
Goes to the cemetery
On the side of the white plank church,
Puts a jar of marigolds
On the red clay dirt
Where no one
Has ever been buried.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Electric Acorn
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